


Pinpricks

by Quitebrilliantindeed



Category: Xenogears
Genre: Horror, I'm Sorry, M/M, Not quite prose, almost poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-29
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quitebrilliantindeed/pseuds/Quitebrilliantindeed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This clarity is a curse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinpricks

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place right after the team's capture at Solaris.

He has needles on his arms. That’s all he can think—there are needles coming out of his arms, and he doesn’t know why.

His brain is made of mud. His eyes are drenched in fog. His limbs are battered, his heart flutters—badda-baddum-badda-baddum—in his chest, and there’s a pile of rocks sitting on his torso that he can’t slip out underneath.

He needs a focal point.

It’s a twisted thing he chooses—but there are twelve of them—twelve buys him enough time. It keeps him occupied. It can sharpen his senses.

Twelve—twelve is the number of needles in him. The number splits his body in half—six for his left, six for his right, each pricking its personal hole in his skin. There is no camaraderie among them—each brings its own pain and pleasure, creating not slices in his skin, not streaks of pain, but twelve burning holes.

It’s Bart’s saving grace—he can count holes. One- (I remember who I am) two-(I remember where I am) three- (I remember who I am with) one-two-three—

The numbers pinch the fabric of his mind, calling dots of light back into his head. It illuminates him—him and the others.

Ah. He can’t count streaks.

What if the others can’t either--?

This clarity is a curse. It grips him before he can even breathe.

And the world twists once again—He panics and counts—

One,

Two.

Three.

One. Two. Three.

He has three numbers and two arms. That only equals six. The pain—the pain is for _twelve_ , yet he can’t count higher—

Four.

Five.

Six.

Four. Five. Six.

Where are they? _Where are they?_

Time’s up—he wrenches his eye open. The lights are blinding, but just like everything else—it’s only temporary. White brilliance fades to dull grey and green. Shadows become masses, and masses become people.

One such mass is strung out in front of him, pretty as a girl, all doll-faced and porcelain in both image and in breath—

Bart gives a cry.

There’s no bow ‘round his neck, no blue covering arms and shallowly heaving chest. Only six needles, three to each arm. It hits him like a knife, and he completes the sum—

Seven—

Eight—

Nine.

Ten—

Eleven—

Twelve.

Six and two.

Making twelve.


End file.
